


Storm-Halter

by Dunkthebard



Series: Nahlnehviir -  "Living and Never Dying" [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Backstory, Family, Gen, Whiterun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22324399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dunkthebard/pseuds/Dunkthebard
Summary: Chapter 2 of Nahlnehviir or "Living and Never Dying," a (mostly) chronological collection of stories about my Dovahkiin and other characters in The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. This story details part of a headcannon backstory for Lydia. Lydia has a family in Whiterun that she has not seen in some time since she began to quest with the Dragonborn. She has friends in Dragonsreach and has a somewhat tense relationship with the Jarl, Balgruuf the Greater.Lydia receives a dream that could be just a nightmare, or it might be a more dangerous omen. Perhaps her many scars from battle aren't all physical.
Series: Nahlnehviir -  "Living and Never Dying" [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1569034
Comments: 6
Kudos: 4





	Storm-Halter

The great foundations of Whiterun shook. The sacred hill it sat upon seemed to crack and shift. A wave of thunder came roaring down on the city.  
But Lydia couldn’t move, her eyes were glued on the storm. She could see the dark clouds fall and rise. They twisted and raged in the shadows of night. The air felt like a brick wall.

Then the Stormcloaks came running out of the mist. Their shields painted red with blood. They screamed in the ancient Atmoran tongue and crashed into Whiterun’s gates. She stood at the brink, seeing the rebels in the background as she continued to eye the storm. She could feel the stone threaten to buckle under the weight of the Stormcloak catapults. She wanted to jump off the gate and directly into the fray. She could stop the rebels from taking her city. They would not hurt her family while she could still hold a sword. They would slam against her shield and all be cut down to their knees.

But the storm above roared once more. The center was close now, she could feel it in her bones. Something moved in between the clouds. It was massive and dark. It pulled the deadly force of nature closer to her.

She raised her shield. It was all she could do. Suddenly the first crack of lightning came. It filled the sky and turned night into day. It ran through the Stormcloaks and turned them into dust. It ripped the fields and farms out of the fertile soil.

Then it went for her shield. The terrifying bolt of fire and light curled around her arms and went straight for her eyes, the eyes still locked on the storm.

Lydia awoke to a modest bed chamber in Dragonsreach. Her bed was soft with pelts and feathers, but it was a far cry from the comfort of her usual bed in Lakeview Manor. She stretched out slowly and struggled to cast off her sleep. She couldn’t stop thinking about the storm, but the clear light of the morning sun helped ease the rush of battle.

She got up and struggled to put on clothes as she wiped the crust from her eyes. She buckled her sword to her belt and realized she had no idea what time it was. Her door opened to an empty hallway and the sounds of voices coming from the main dining hall. The pungent smell of breakfast filled her nose.

“Fuck I’m hungry.” She muttered to herself. Her stomach grumbled.

She walked into the hall and saw the Dragonborn, Castor Sovidir, eating a morning sweetroll with the Jarl’s son, Frothar. The Child could barely stay in his seat and hounded Sovidir with questions.

“Can you make my sword shoot fire!” He asked with a beaming grin.

“Of course,” Castor gestured to the mock blade on Frothar’s hip. “But I doubt you’d like that, the fire would burn that up in your hand.”

“Oh.” The child seemed completely caught off guard. “But what if I had a real sword?”

“That would work just fine Frothar, just come to me when you’re old enough to have one, and maybe don’t mention it to your father.”

“I heard that.” Balgruuf walked back in the room in his morning clothes and with a piece of meat in his hand. “I’d prefer if you didn’t infect my children with your tales of enchantments and magic, Dragonborn.”

“I would never think of it my Jarl, I just was educating your son on the dangers of enchanting a wooden sword.”

The Jarl only replied with a sigh. He then noticed Lydia’s approach.

“I see your time serving the Dragonborn has riddled down your resolve. I remember when you were first to rise in the palace.” He said with a biting laugh.

“She can sleep as long as she likes Jarl, she’s certainly earned that much.” Castor spoke as he took another bite of his meal.

“Who will guard you in the small hours of the morning then?” The Jarl shot back.

“I will guard myself. I am not completely helpless.” Castor said.

“I rise early when I need to. I assumed that since the Dragonborn would be by your side, he would be secure.” Lydia said. It was true she had overslept, but she had always hated the Jarl’s comments. She was glad that Castor had seemed to catch on.

“Fair enough.” Balgruuf said. He returned to his breakfast.

Lydia devoured her meal. It was filling and reminded her of the days when she used to call Dragonsreach her home. She had always loved the way Gerda, the cook in the hall, had prepared her beef and mutton. The salt and spice in each bite made her think of home. It seemed like so long ago, before she had met the Dragonborn, before she was charged to be his Huscarl. It had only been around a year, but it felt like centuries.

She got up when she was done with her meal. She made the customary bow to the Jarl and took her leave. In truth, Castor needed little in the way of bodyguards. There was very little that could sneak up on his magically enhanced senses. Besides, he always seemed so annoyed and embarrassed when someone did bodyguard him that it was rarely worth the trouble.

Lydia walked into the familiar kitchen to the side of the great hall and saw a warm face. Gerda was stirring a broth when she looked up, her graying hair tightly in a bun.

“Lydia!” She put down her ladle and ran over and embraced the warrior with a hug. It was exactly what Lydia needed.

“Your mutton is still the best in all Tamriel.” She said with a smile.

“I’m so glad to see you, my dear! I had heard the Dragonborn had come to speak with the Jarl and hoped you’d be along.” Gerda took note of the subtle new scars Lydia had acquired.

Lydia could tell from Gerda’s eyes she saw the damage. “Don’t worry friend, you should of seen the men and monsters I fought, they received far worse.”

“Dragons?” Gerda asked with excitement and worry in her voice.

The Huscarl nodded, proudly.

“God’s above, don’t tell your father.” Gerda nervously sighed.

Lydia laughed. “He’ll change his tune when I bring home a cart load of dragon scales. A few alone could let him never work another day in his life.”  
  
“Still… don’t get eaten dear.” Gerda smiled again.

“I do my best.”

“Speaking of which, have you seen your father yet?”

“That’s where I plan to go next, probably will find him rudely haggling with Anoriath or something.” Lydia took a sip of Gerda’s stew.

“Well when you see him tell him to have Finki come to the palace again to sing and play her lute for me and the other servants, she’s amazing.”

“Really now?” Lydia knew her younger sister had been practicing, but she was surprised she had gotten good enough to perform for strangers already. It really had been a long time since she had seen her family. She smiled at the thought of Finki impressing Gerda and her friends in the lower halls of Dragonsreach.

“Well, duty calls, see you around Gerda. I’ll tell Finki you were so impressed by her playing.” Lydia said as she departed.

“Hope to see you soon, Storm-Halter, you are always welcome in my kitchen.” Gerda gave Lydia another hug.

The mention of her given last name sent a shiver down Lydia’s spine. As she walked out on the Dragonsreach drawbridge she realized why. The storm in her dream last night had felt so real. The storm that had given Lydia her name had been absolutely real, but it might as well been a dream.

The night of her birth a tempest tried to destroy her home and family. A great storm came down from the Sea of Ghosts. It went over the Pale and Hjaalmarch with ease and slammed with all its strength into Whiterun hold. The fury of the wind and rain destroyed the crops of almost every farm in the hold, and then marched to the gates of Whiterun itself. The clouds were as black as charcoal, they said.

Some smaller houses were blown away in the wall of rain and wind. Even the legendary mead hall of the Companions, Jorrvaskr, was not spared. A massive bolt of lightning hit the hall and the northern side caught on fire. The canals of water that ran through the city overflowed and covered the city. The basement of the hall of the dead became a 5 foot tall pool of water. Many of the ancient families in the city lost the bodies of their ancestors in the flood.

It was the end of days.

But on that night, Lydia’s mother had greater concerns. Her family huddled around her as she struggled through the immense and unimaginable pain of childbirth. Her father and Uncle boarded up the house and held the roof together against the fatal winds. Right as water started to break into the house and fall on her father’s defeated head, Lydia was born. The storm faded away into the mist and the city was spared. The light of the moons broke through the black clouds.

From that day forward Lydia did not have her father’s family name, she had the title of Storm-Halter, savior of the city. The Jarl himself and the high priestess of Kyne came to her family and blessed their new daughter. Lydia’s mother, Eveir, became the hero of the town. Her labor had stopped the tempest.

But the storm still clouded Lydia’s mind as she walked the winding streets of the plains district, the lowest level of the hill that Whiterun was built on. If a mighty storm had marked the beginning of her life, perhaps it would also mark her death.

Lydia’s powerful hand knocked on the front door of her family's home. It was the same door that Uncle Talsim, 25 years ago, had to hold shut with his bare hands. He held onto the hinges and braced himself against the stone hearth. He dug his feet in and prayed.

Her father opened the door.


End file.
